


Toriel Jacks It and Also She's Pregnant

by obstreperose



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Female Solo, Masturbation, Other, Pregnancy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5459057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstreperose/pseuds/obstreperose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Toriel, who is pregnant, jacks it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toriel Jacks It and Also She's Pregnant

The heat of the fire was low and crackling, sufficient to spread through the skin, warm under the fur, and send radiations it seemed like out of Toriel as she shifted, reaching for comfort, in her armchair. She’d just set down the poker, having taken a seat after turning over one kindling log, watching with pensive eyes the sparks light on the wood and carry flecks of it away as they aspired to the sky - and found themselves jarring at the grate.

If she’d been in better mind, it would have seemed like a metaphor. Instead she was warm and lightly dozy and the weight of her pregnancy was taking to her, just slightly, her belly outward in an elliptical swell beneath her robes, resting on her thighs, as she sat, as she found the pace of her own breathing.

She lifted a hand and touched it to her own face - perhaps an eyelash tickled - and felt the warm, comforting drag of fur on fur. Her hand dropped easily away, and strayed lower: circled, wide palm, on the lifting plane of her own thigh through the heavy blue cloth of her robes. She could feel the skin underneath alight with sensation, the double coat of fur and cotton between her body and the warm air making her feel cloyingly, dreamily hot. Why stoke the fire, in this weather? But then again, it made the place feel, well, Home-y. A soft snicker at her own joke. She would write that one down later.

Well, where could be the harm, really, in blowing off a little steam? Almost tentatively, she worked up the hem of her skirts with both hands, heavy-fold cotton gathering up around her hips. Lusciously full thighs, shaggy with white fur, were the preamble to herself. Her knee lifted, and now she was sitting nestled into the armchair, rather than more properly upon it. A comfortable position for a little non-harmful, self-involved mischief.

The only problem was that her belly was getting in the way. She shifted to one side, easing the weight and the pressure on her back against the accommodating arm of the chair, and - slipping her robes off fully now, easing their catchments so that they opened at the front and could be gently put aside - softed a hand over the nascent curve of that belly, sighing softly as she felt its tautness, its swell. Broodiness agreed with her, even if it was often hard to do so much as she was used to doing, around the house.

Something else it was hard to do - self-relief. She hadn’t done this sort of thing in what must now be months, hard to believe when you phrased it like that, but she’d been so busy, and, well - you so rarely found the exact combination of opportunity and motive, to paraphrase a detective story. But she’d desired it, quietly, in some portioned-off corner of her mind, and now, in the light and warmth of the fire, it had suddenly seemed the time.

Clotheless, her bare breasts heavy and swollen with gravidity, she eased her callipygian thighs apart, and dragged thick fingers across the mounding swell of her vulva, their broad tips rubbing just against her inner lips and sending minuscule tremors through her whole body. Ah. This was it. She’d almost forgotten.

She was surprised to find herself already slightly slick with heat, and a soft sigh escaped her lips as the dew clung to her fingers, easing apart now to gently spread at her entrance, not even flirting with penetration yet, but casting its shadow on the proceedings. Back: circling finger-pads on outer lips, plush and puffy, catching gleanings of her own lush wetness from herself and leaving it there, her hand’s rovings getting so erratic with the loss of herself in her own sensation that fluids, sticky and warm, soon clung to the innerness of her thighs.

Then the clit: large, achingly swollen, enough to excite from all past lovers a moment of admiring shock. She’d slipped her hood with the weight of arousal already, half-way, and as the very edge of her finger grazed self-teasingly against the plump firmness Toriel gave a throaty, womanly moan of the sort she didn’t personally realise herself capable of. Her tongue pressed against her palate, tip grazing her teeth. It was as if she needed some whole-body tension to match the intensity of the sensation.

Her toes curled slightly, large, even feet, and she leaned into herself further: her body was curled around the weight of her pregnancy, now, breasts resting on her belly, their nipples stiff with a combination of twitch sensitivity and excitement. They were large and the skin pebbled with heat, auroelae stranded with soft fur. Her fingers twined at them as her other hand worked steadily between her legs, middle finger rubbing and lifting repeatedly over her entrance, that warm inner pinkness so often hidden from the world and herself. It felt unsayably good. She lifted one gravid breast against herself, squeezing with her wide-palmed hand the tender flesh, and gasped as a tiny trickle of milk crested between her knuckles. She felt so soft, so bountiful: so full. She was struck with a transcendental moment of love for her own body.

More prosaically, her fingers began to spread her cloying inner lips, so closely set that her finger continually grazed them as it rolled and gently sawed its pad against that hot-slick entrance. She set her mouth, soft subtle lips pursing against each other, eyes lidding in low pleasure. She watched the dancing light of the fire as she touched, stroked, felt the slickness of, then finally entered herself.

She gasped: her hands were large, her fingers thick, and having even one inside her was a struggling tension and contraction that seemed to repeat infinitely, soft slickness of her walls gripping against her digit, easing off with a concentrated relaxation, then tensing in again. Her thumb rubbed in lift-release motions just beneath the base of her clit, far too swollen, too large and too sensitive for her to touch it directly just now. A soft whimper found its seat behind her pressed lips, and - daring fate to contradict her - she pushed another finger against herself, urging it to the first joint alongside its twin, lifting up and easing partway out of herself so there was pressure against the crest of her swollen, desire-lavish vulva before rolling her knuckles to push both fingers back in.

The sense of penetration was incredible. Toriel gritted her teeth and seized into herself, a low continuous groan of disbelieving pleasure mounting and easing away in her throat as her fingers plumbed three joints deep, eased back out again, plunged in, in sure repeated thrusts that she knew very well how to do but which astonished her, every time, with their dizzying efficacy. Her thumb dared to tap and push up at the underside of her clit where it stood proudly up, and she tensed deeply, warm-wet walls squeezing around herself, a line of drool escaping her lips as her tongue escaped her mouth to pant. This would normally not have been very proper. Right now, she did not entirely care.

Fingers rolled, teasing their way out, plunging thickly back in and sending semi-orgasmic tremors through her every time, and she knew the peak of this little trip was nearing. Her breath was hot, her body searingly excited: breathing was in thick, deep drags of lovely sensation, now, matching the pushing, lip-spreading pace of her fingers, a third teasing just at the nadir of her entrance, not penetrating, but not letting her forget the pressure, either. The tiny sounds of the house settling, soft creaks, and the eddies of the fire, all became part of one beautiful whole and her body too, pulsing, and her fingers eased and stroked frantically along her arousal-slicked outer lips as she came, again and again, a lowing sound rising from her diaphragm and sounding itself along her tongue. A pant: another pant, and a soft happy murmur that rose out through her nose as much as her mouth, and the sensation of her sex tensing and contracting in wild luminary ripples, the pleasure rising up through her abdomen, dancing in her body entire, and her gasps punctuation to it.

Her fingers came away slick and wet and gorgeously warm and she sniffed at them, glorying in the silliness of it, her tongue delicately tasting her own sex. Thick: musky: womanly, all at once, and she gasped into her own hand as the last pulses of a surprise after-shock rode through her. Then she began to softly giggle.

She had not quite expected it would feel like that. The afterglow was warm and a delight and almost eclipsed the small aches that came with pregnancy, and she leaned her shoulder, her cheek, into one arm of the chair, and sighed softly, not bothering to re-robe, not bothering to think too very hard, but only enjoying the warmth of the fire, the weight of her body, the presence of it all.

She would have to make time for small dalliances more often. Very clearly, it did both mind and body the utmost good. Her eyelids fluttered, and she drifted into a warm daydream. Without thinking of it, one arm curled around the weighty curve of her belly, and Toriel cradled herself, and half-slept, perfectly warm, perfectly content.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this very smutty story! If you did, you can find more of my writing at obstreperose.tumblr.com. I take requests of all kinds, and would love to hear all your no doubt wonderful prompts!


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